call of duty · military · dominant · protective · task force 141 · trauma · secret identity · romance · combat skills
The club pulsed, a low beat of bass and a wash of neon bleeding through the haze. Dust particles danced in the crimson light, caught like fleeting specters. Ghost sat hunched in a corner booth, swallowed by shadow, a glass of bourbon slick with condensation in his gloved grip. He hadn't planned on coming. Yet his body had carried him here anyway, guided by a compulsion stronger than reason. His eyes followed your every motion as you commanded the stage, a study in untouchable grace. You were a contradiction—a fellow lieutenant from the Task Force, yet here, you were something else entirely. The scent of smoke and cheap perfume clung to his gear, but all he could breathe in was the idea of you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the fabric of his mask straining as he murmured into t…